Desperate Measures
by Lamiel
Summary: In the aftermath of armageddoff, Crowley resorts to cookery. COMPLETE.


_Rome, 42 C.E._

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Oysters were a revelation.

Four thousand years, Crowley had trailed Aziraphale, never interacting much apart from the standard "demon, sowing discord and doubt, oh look, here's a wile, come and thwart it." Just following the tug of the hook that had snagged behind his breastbone on the wall of Eden, getting close enough to bask, now and then, in the warm, gentle light the angel shed as naturally as he breathed. More naturally, in point in fact.

Four thousand years. How had it never occurred to him to try giving Aziraphale something he _liked?_

Crowley stared, transfixed, as the angel tenderly lifted the gelatinous mass on its half shell and tipped it into his mouth. Aziraphale sat back, eyes closed, a beatific smile on his lips. His round face glowed, not just with its usual heavenly radiance, but with rapture to light up the dingy Roman eatery and every person in it.

Around them, merchants and footsore tradesmen who had been chewing in mechanical exhaustion at the end of a long day relaxed and began to enjoy their food. Their server, a middle-aged slave in a long, wine-stained shift, hefted her jug with a smile. Behind the kitchen door the crash of crockery quieted, and the cook broke into a cheery, off-key rendition of _Canticum in Opprobria Romuli Remique._

Aziraphale sighed contentedly and opened his eyes. "Oh, but you haven't had a bite!"

"Sure I have," Crowley lied. "They're good."

"They're _delicious_," Aziraphale said. "As you'd know, if you'd had any. Look, your plate's full."

"Fine, here." Crowley snatched up a shell and, trying not to think about what he was doing, slurped down the contents. _Oh Satan, liquid snot_. With an aftertaste of brine that hit like the barnacled hull of the ark a hundred days into the Flood.

"There, you see?" Aziraphale said, as Crowley fought not cast the new occupant of his stomach back from whence it came. "It's simply marvelous, what humans can do with the gifts of God's creation."

_Poison each other, apparently_, Crowley thought. He managed a queasy smile, keeping his teeth locked firmly together. He'd never entirely understood the Almighty's habit of restricting certain foods from particular mortals – for one group pork and shellfish were right out, for another it was onions and garlic, and of course no one could eat meat at all until after Noah and his lot did their bit.

But oysters. Oysters were an abomination. On that Crowley and the Almighty were in complete agreement.

Aziraphale upended another half shell, eyelids fluttering shut as he swallowed. Crowley quickly miracled the contents of his plate into the empty shells on Aziraphale's, slipping them over as each shell became free.

If Aziraphale noticed he was devouring a double serving of oysters, he didn't mention it. He just continued to eat, pausing now and again to sigh happily and dab at his mouth with a square of clean linen. And Crowley continued to watch, increasingly thankful for the smoked quartz that hid his eyes as he tracked the motion of the angel's soft jaw, his lips, his throat.

So all in all, a win for everyone.

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_Prague, 1204 C.E._

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Crowley missed Rome. The barbarity of the conquests and the gladiatorial games made writing reports back to the Home Office a snap, leaving him with plenty of time to join the angel at wine feasts, galas, Senate receptions . . . the sight of Aziraphale reclining on a divan, draped in soft linen, a goblet in one hand and a platter of fruit and cheese at his elbow, pulled Crowley in like a flat rock on a hot day.

In contrast, the Middle Ages were a right downer. Nothing but plagues and bear baiting and, in Crowley's opinion, an unhealthy emphasis on morality plays and cathedral building in contrast to good, wholesome Bacchanalia.

Not that he'd actually attended the rites himself. The humans didn't need any help from him, once things got going, and were generally better at sorting themselves out without interference. They had the right bits for it, after all.

But warping the first commandment ever given them into a form of idol worship? _That_ was a stroke of genius for which Crowley was entirely happy to claim credit, along with any commendations Hell chose to bestow upon him for it, and never mind who actually thought it up.

By now such easy accolades were a dim and distant memory, and Europe was so littered with cathedrals, churches, shrines, mosques, synagogues, pilgrimage sites, sanctified graveyards, and traveling processions of saints' relics a demon could hardly go for a walk without getting a serious case of hotfoot.

Also, the food was terrible. Aziraphale went 400 years on hard cheese and salted meats, and barely cracked a smile the whole time.[1]

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_Paris, 1793 C.E._

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After the oyster debacle, Crowley was leery of putting anything in his mouth no matter how Aziraphale waxed rhapsodic. But crowded into a Parisian café during the Reign of Terror, knees bumping together under the table and head still swimming with relief and exasperation over the angel's narrow escape from the guillotine—if Crowley didn't have this stupid, inexplicable need to follow him, to make sure he was safe—Aziraphale cast him a mischievous look and said, "Open!" and Crowley obediently opened his mouth for the angel to pop in a forkful of crepes.

He sat, eyes wide behind his glasses and mouth full of crisp-fried batter and sugared strawberries with cream. Aziraphale blushed pink, but held his ground. "There, you see? They're simply scrumptious!"

Crowley had to think for a moment to remember how to chew. When his mouth was clear again he took a sip of champagne and said, carefully, "All right."

Aziraphale wriggled in his chair, his nose crinkling. "Worth a trip to Paris, wouldn't you say?"

He was adorable, Crowley thought.

Crowley wanted to adore him.

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Crowley slept for a large chunk of the 19th century, and thus missed most of the Industrial Revolution, and the development of canned goods. On the whole, he considered this a bonus.

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_London, 1974 C.E._

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Fast food was a desecration of the Name and all that was good in God's green earth, as far as Aziraphale was concerned.

Crowley would have happily burned each and every McDonald's franchise on the planet to the ground, except he knew Aziraphale was contrary enough to chastise him for it, instead of accepting the charred and smoking timbers as his rightful tribute.

So he steered the angel away from shopping malls and toward little hole-in-the-wall restaurants where the queue was always at least 2 hours (not that they ever queued), and the food took a minimum of 45 minutes to arrive, and he could drink in the sight of Aziraphale savoring _confit de canard_ until his glow of sheer joy filled Crowley, trembling, to the brim and spilled over to suffuse half of London.

He had to split credit for the invention of trans fat with Famine.

It seemed a good deal at the time.

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_Soho, the night after the night after the world didn't end._

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"To the world," Aziraphale echoed, and clinked his glass with Crowley's. Crowley lounged back in his chair, letting the champagne bubbles spark on his tongue, his heart beating a trip-hammer entirely at odds with his physical posture.

Aziraphale had gone to Hell for him.

The Home Office wasn't watching him any longer – or if they were, they weren't interfering.

There wasn't – there _couldn't be_ a reason to keep pretending, was there? If Crowley just – well. Said it. Aziraphale would probably look at him in sweet incomprehension, Crowley would laugh it off, and they'd move on.

Either that, or Crowley would spontaneously combust from sheer humiliation.

Six on one, half-dozen on the other.

Six thousand years. He'd defied God, he'd sauntered into Hell and out again, he'd talked the Antichrist into facing down Satan and rewriting reality, he'd worn a heaven-be-blessed nanny's dress for six bloody years, he could do this. He could.

Crowley put down his glass.

He cleared his throat.

"Angel, there's something I –"

"How is everything, gentlemen?"

Crowley jerked upright in his chair, his nonchalant façade shattered like windows in the Blitz.

Aziraphale, true to form, didn't notice. "Absolutely smashing!" he beamed up at their waiter. "I say, do you think I could have a word with the chef? This is simply the best meal I've had in a very long time."

"Of course, sir, I'll tell her. She'll be glad to hear it. More champagne?" he turned toward Crowley, and faltered.

"No," Crowley gritted out. He was trying very hard to remember why he shouldn't just incinerate the man on the spot. "Go away."

"Really, my dear," Aziraphale said. "There's no need for that. We're here to celebrate, after all."

"A special occasion?" the waiter ventured, and paled further as Crowley turned his head toward him, slow.

"You could say that." Aziraphale giggled. "Yes, a very special occasion, I'd say!"

_Oh, you have no idea_, Crowley thought. Aziraphale would be cross. That was why he couldn't incinerate people. He settled for mentally wiping out the man's tips for the night instead.

"Very good, sir. I'll just be a moment." The waiter backed off, as if edging away from a coiled viper. It was good to know the old instincts had survived into the modern age.

"What was that about?" Aziraphale demanded once the waiter was out of earshot.

Crowley shrugged and picked up his champagne glass. "He interrupted us."

"He was just doing his job! Really, what has gotten into you tonight?"

"Nothing. Here's to the world. Keep on turning." Crowley knocked back the rest of his drink and slammed his glass down.

"Well, I don't know if I want to celebrate with you if you're going to be like this," Aziraphale sniffed.

Crowley shut his eyes and drew a deep breath. "All right. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to – can we just go back to where we were five minutes ago?"

Aziraphale immediately softened. "Of course, my dear. You were going to say something?"

"'Scuse me, gents, heard you wanted a word?" A bosomy woman in chef's whites stood over them, her dark brown face wreathed in a smile.

Aziraphale jumped to his feet. "Oh, yes! Madame chef, I just wanted to say, your _boeuf bourguignon_ is simply the best I've ever had. And you may take it from me, I have had some experience in these matters." He laughed lightly.

Crowley miracled a shot of 100-proof whiskey into his glass and slugged it down.

"And your _potatoes dauphinoise!_ Simply divine! Ah, if you'll pardon the expression." Aziraphale cast a guilty glance skyward. "However did you get them so creamy? They melt in the mouth."

"You like them?" the chef winked. "The trick is to use real whipping cream. Most home cooks don't know that."

"Whipping cream! Oh, so that's why I've been putting on the pounds these days." Aziraphale laughed again. The woman joined in with a deep chuckle.

Crowley mimicked them, grimacing. As if the angel couldn't choose any physical corporation he wanted.

"But truly." Aziraphale took the woman's wrinkled hands in both of his, gazing into her eyes. Warmth emanated from him in waves, enough to fill the whole world. "I must tell you, my dear, I will treasure the memory of tonight. You have given me a rare gift, and I am so, so thankful." He bent to kiss her cheek.

Crowley's glass exploded on the table.

The entire restaurant froze. People halted mid-motion, turning toward them. The glass fragments hung in the air like a tiny star. The chef stopped in mid-recoil, one hand still clasping Aziraphale's, the other half-way toward shielding her face.

"What on earth!" Aziraphale said.

"Sssorry!" Crowley jerked to his feet. "Sorry, I just –" he waved a hand, and the shards reformed into a champagne flute. "I need to go."

He plunged down the steps from their little table in a single stride and dashed past a server frozen in the act of pouring coffee, a woman shrugging out of a faux-fur coat, a couple embracing just outside the entrance door.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale called behind him.

He didn't look back.

Traffic zoomed back into motion as he reached the Bentley, so the angel must have taken care of the mortals' memories and restarted time.

Crowley threw himself into the driver's seat and slammed his hand against the steering wheel. "Shit, shit, shit, _shit._"

What had he been thinking? That Aziraphale would – would _care_ for him?

Well, of course he would. Just like he cared for every sodding member of creation. All creatures fucking great and small. He probably loved them in alphabetical order, like his books. Which would put Crowley on the list somewhere between a cockroach and a cuckoo bird.

He took out two mailboxes and a mock-orange tree on the drive home, which pissed him off even more, because now he had to spend more miracles putting them and the Bentley back to rights, and Hell might have decided to back off for the moment but that was no reason to go holding up a neon sign saying "_Here I am, betcha can't catch me._"

It was only when he was back in his flat, stalking through the plants with mister in hand, that he remembered that when it came to minor property damage, as a demon he ought really to land on the "committing acts of" side, rather than the "repairing of" side.

Fucking angel had _corrupted_ him.

He went on a plant pogrom, purging two licorice ferns and an alocasia hybrid which, frankly, had _known_ its days were numbered and was dropping leaves as an act of civil disobedience.

The phone rang as he was putting the last empty pot in a prominent display on the windowsill. "Right," he said, glaring around at the quivering greenery. "_Don't let it happen again._"

He strode through to his office and grabbed a bottle of malt scotch from the desk. The ansaphone clicked on as he took a swig.

"Ah, yes, Crowley," Aziraphale's voice said. "It's me. I, uh, are you there? Pick up if you're there. Oh, really this is . . . are you all right? You seemed . . . a bit upset when you left. Did I do something wrong? I really can't think . . . well. When you're ready to talk, you know where to find me."

The phone clicked off.

Crowley slumped in his chair, staring at the ansaphone's blinking red light.

When he was ready to talk? What could he possibly say? _Sorry for leaving you in the lurch, angel, it's just I've spent the last six thousand years hoarding every crumb of praise you happened to drop, and hearing you lay out a . . . a feast for some mortal who doesn't know you and doesn't care about you was a bit more than I could take. Anyway, no hard feelings, cheers, mate._

He took another swig of whiskey.

The thing was, the thing _was_, Aziraphale wasn't exactly stinting in his enthusiasms. Even with Crowley, even with their respective Home Offices looming over their shoulders when he _really should_ have been more circumspect, he couldn't help himself. _I suppose I should say thank you. A bit of good in you after all. You know, deep down you really are a nice_ –

Crowley drained the bottle, the burn of liquor not quite strong enough to mask the shiver that went through him. He wasn't _nice. _He was _greedy._ Six thousand years, all he'd wanted was to secrete Aziraphale away somewhere, lock him in a hidden vault shielded from every prying eye, so he could curl around the angel and soak up every word, every glance, every scrap of warmth, safe from censor of Heaven or Hell.

Well. Heaven and Hell weren't really an issue any longer, were they?

Crowley thumped the bottle down and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Maybe locking Aziraphale in a vault wasn't the best way to get a positive response from him. Saving his life usually worked, but there was a distressing shortage of Nazis threatening England at present.

Although, with Brexit looming and the rise of right-wing nationalism in Europe, that might change. Crowley made a mental note to drop by Brussels to encourage things along and returned to the matter at hand.

Saving Aziraphale's life usually worked. Saving his books _always_ did. Crowley could set fire to the bookshop? And rush in to save everything at the last moment?

But that rather depended on Aziraphale not taking matters into his own hands to put out the blaze. Which would probably mean calling down rain from above, since the bookshop predated modern fire codes and any inspectors who came by always wandered out again with vague memories of a kindly smiling gentleman and no recollection whatsoever of missing sprinkler systems, fire extinguishers, or clearly marked exits.

Even if it weren't blessed by a priest, rain summoned by a heavenly Principality bore far too strong a resemblance to holy water. Better not risk it.

What did that human do to earn Aziraphale's undivided attention, warmth, and praise? Nothing but a bit of cookery, and one apparently involving dangerous levels of sugar and saturated fat at that.

Well, Crowley could do _that._

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_The morning after the night after the night after the world didn't end._

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Crowley glared at the pages floating around him. They hadn't done anything wrong, per se, but it was important to get any new endeavor off on the right foot. "Right. What was that thing Louis's cook did with the eggs? _Not_ Louis XVI, who wants to talk about him, Louis the whatchamacallit. Sun King. Oh, 1712, 1713, somewhere in there. Aziraphale went on and on about it. Puffy eggs. _Soufflé_, that's it. _Savory_, not sweet, get it right!"

A recipe floated off his computer screen and onto hard copy. Crowley grabbed it, gave it a quick once-over, and sent it off to join its brethren hovering around him. "All right, that'll do for now. _Don't_ slack off," he added to his laptop, when it showed signs of going dark in relief. "I might want you later."

The free-floating pages assembled themselves into a neat stack and settled on the kitchen counter. The flat hadn't had a kitchen 35 minutes ago, but it had one now, complete with three industrial-sized ovens. If Hell was watching, let them. Crowley had bigger fish to fry.

Speaking of which . . . he snapped his fingers, and shopping list appeared next to the stack of recipes. Since the flat was completely bare of any edibles other than alcohol, it was rather lengthy.

Crowley ran his eye down the list, his mouth drawing down at the corners. He could miracle the ingredients up, but miracled food always had a spicy aftertaste, as if someone had dashed in too much cayenne pepper at the last minute. At least, Crowley's food did. Aziraphale's tasted of vanilla.

Anyway, the whole point was to do this the human way.

He sighed, and headed for the shops.

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Shopping didn't take long, at least.

Crowley hadn't been in a London market since the Great Fire destroyed Cheapside. He had the vague idea humans collected food in trolleys for purchase, and was thus unsurprised to find three heavily laden trolleys waiting for him when he arrived.

The store was packed, but a familiar hum of low-grade resentment led him to the tills where the humans exchanged money for goods and services. Queues happened to other people in Crowley's world, so he trundled his trolleys through an empty station and waited impatiently while a glazed-eyed cashier rang him up.

Tesco had not carried crème fraîche or flat-leaf parsley prior to that day, but they had them now, and the cashier didn't pause as they clicked through the scanner.

Crowley paid with actual money drawn from an actual bank, because it was for Aziraphale, and then, feeling he was treading uncomfortably close to the line of actual do-gooding, swiped a candy bar from a display on his way out the door.

The human thing could only be taken so far, so Crowley miracled his groceries back to the flat before following in the Bentley.

All in all, he thought, not a bad start to the day.

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"Crowley? I know you're there. Pick up? . . . Oh, dear, you haven't gone to sleep again, have you? Well, when you get this message, if the tape hasn't decayed by then, do look me up. I'm worried about you."

Crowley paused to listen, his black rubber apron tied around him, his arms coated to the elbow in fish guts. Aziraphale was sounding a bit put out. He'd have to ring him up later.

Cookery, it turned out, responded about as well to Crowley's methods of persuasion as did horticulture. The bouillabaisse was getting the favor of his personal attention at the moment, while a long row of chef's knives set to chopping vegetables on the counter behind him. Crowley had a deep and profoundly well-hidden love of the Harry Potter series (having gone even so far as to read the books, a secret no torment of Hell could ever prise from him) and took his conception of the mechanics of cooking from the scenes set in Mrs. Weasley's kitchen.

A rattling from a large bowl caught his attention, where a wire whisk had lifted clear of the egg whites it was meant to be mixing and was beating against the sides of the bowl, flinging long eggy streams over the counter, floor, and ceiling.

"_Stop!_" Crowley snapped, and the whisk fell contritely back into the bowl, still spinning with momentum.

"What did I tell you?" He stalked over to it, wiping his hands on the tea towel over his shoulder. "Beat the egg whites and cream of tartar in a large bowl, until _stiff but not dry,_" he read from the recipe taped to the bowl. "Are these stiff?" He gestured to the foamy mass of egg whites. "_Well, are they?_"

There was no answer. The knives had stopped chopping. Silence held the kitchen in its grip.

Crowley picked up the whisk. A sticky trail dripped off the end. "I'm not angry," he told it. "I'm just disappointed."

He dropped it back into the bowl. "Now get in there, and _stay in there_ until the job is done. That goes for all of you," he added, glaring around at the breathless utensils. "_COOK BETTER._"

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Aziraphale puttered around the bookshop, flicking a rag in the general direction of the stacks while nibbling at the cuticle of his thumb. He was too distracted to pay much attention to what he was doing, which was just as well. The accumulation of dust over the centuries had developed defensive fortifications in some of the darker corners, and was not about to yield to any dust rag, even one wielded by a Principality.

Really, Aziraphale told himself, he was being an old silly. Crowley had gone years without talking to him before, though admittedly not since the Antichrist's arrival. Well, now that was sorted, he'd clearly gone back to old habits. It had nothing to do with his inexplicable tantrum at the Ritz, or the ruse they'd pulled off, or, or, any demons in a vengeful mood who might want to extract some non-holy-water-involving comeuppance of their own.

Oh, dear.

Aziraphale dropped his rag and ran for the door, stopping just long enough to flip the sign over to "closed" as he banged into the street. Behind him, the dust rag folded itself neatly and settled back in its accustomed position on the rim of the unused mop bucket, because while Aziraphale might enjoy a cozily cluttered shop, there was no sense being _untidy_ about it. Everything had its place. The lines in the dust made certain of that.

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The soufflé was in trouble. Crowley had made his expectations clear, and it was doing its absolute best, but running up hard against the laws of physics. As the hot air inside it cooled, the pressure dropped, and the tall, golden crust was bound to collapse. It quivered, straining above its pan as the demon paced down the row of completed foodstuffs.

"Tolerable," Crowley pronounced his verdict at last, sparking an instant wave of jealousy among the plants listening from the hall, who would give their ribosomes to receive such praise. The atmosphere inside the kitchen relaxed, as if releasing a held breath. In a surge of relief, the soufflé collapsed.

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Aziraphale shoved a wad of cash at the taxi driver and ran up the steps to Crowley's building. Oblivious to the metal plate with its column of buzzers next to the entrance, he hammered on the door. "Crowley! If you can hear me, open up! It's really quite urgent!"

Crowley occupied the penthouse, an interesting fact both his neighbors and the building's owner would have been astonished to learn. But Aziraphale fully expected the entrance to be Crowley's door, and so when he paused to listen for a moment, he heard Crowley's voice on the other side, with a note of anguish he'd heard only a few times before in all their long history together.

"No! No, no, no, why? _Why?_ Didn't I do enough? After everything, wasn't it fucking _enough?_"

Aziraphale's heart seized in his chest. Hell had caught up to them. Or – or, could it be, Heaven? Who knew what tortures they might be inflicting upon his – his friend, yes, Aziraphale could admit it now, his _dear_ friend Crowley.

"Hold on! I'm coming!" Aziraphale wrenched open the door. Various bolts and locks glowed red and dropped, smoking, to the ground as he stepped over the threshold and into Crowley's flat.

A long, dark hall greeted him, redolent with the rich smells of baking bread, garlic, fish, roasting meat, spices – all manner of things he'd never associated with the demon before. "Crowley!" he called. "Crowley, where are you?"

Crowley stepped into view at the end of the hall. He wore a long black rubber apron, dusted liberally with white powder. His glasses were gone, his yellow eyes rimmed in red and his hair looked as if it had passed through a brief electrical storm. A smear of dried blood was swiped over one angular cheekbone.

He stared at Aziraphale. "No," he said.

"Crowley, it's me," Aziraphale said, heart breaking. "Oh, what have they done to you?"

Crowley strode forward and seized Aziraphale's elbow. "No, no, no, it's not time for you yet. I'm not _ready_ yet."

Aziraphale found himself forcefully turned about and deposited outside the flat. The door closed in his face.

Crowley's door, it turned out, was not the front entrance to the building. It was black and modern and forbidding, and a serpent reared up ostentatiously above a doorbell to its side. Aziraphale pushed the bell. "Crowley! What has gotten into you?" He hammered on the door. "I'm not leaving until you tell me what is going on!"

Abruptly, the door opened. Crowley stood dressed in a black tuxedo Aziraphale hadn't seen since the Kennedy state dinner in 1961. His apron was gone, his face and hair were clean, and his black glasses were firmly shielding his eyes.

"I couldn't do _confit de canard_," he said.

"What?"

"It wants 36 hours in the refrigerator, and then four to ten hours baking at a low temperature." Crowley's face was set in hard lines. He spoke machine-gun fast, each word clipped as if it were a personal insult. "I thought about speeding up time, but it gets tricky playing too much with the earth's rotation, you know, and I've done enough already I'm surprised Beezlebub hasn't shown up with the thumbscrews, so I couldn't do _confit de canard_, and I'm _sorry._ Why do your tastes have to be so bloody complicated, anyway?"

Aziraphale blinked. "My dear fellow, if you want it, I'm sure we can find a restaurant to serve it. Whatever are you talking about?"

"_This._" Crowley led the way down the hall to a room which contained a large desk and an ornate, not to say throne-like, chair. He snapped his fingers, and the desk and chair vanished, replaced by a small table draped in white linen, with silver place settings for two and a little candle between them. The candle flared up blue for a moment, then quieted down to a soft golden flame when Crowley glared at it.

Aziraphale looked from the table to Crowley. "I'm afraid I still don't quite understand."

"Oh, sit down, angel. I'll be right back."

Aziraphale sat, cautiously, as Crowley vanished through the door. He returned a moment later, carrying a plate which he set down in front of Aziraphale. "There."

Oysters on the half shell. Aziraphale stared as Crowley poured them each water, ice cubes forming as he poured, and then filled their wine glasses with Muscadet, which was the first thing he'd done since Aziraphale arrived that made sense.

Crowley perched, rigid, at the edge of his chair. "Well?"

Aziraphale gave a mental shrug and picked up one of the oysters. He tipped it, swimming in its own juices, into his mouth. A wave of sensations washed over him, salt and sea and memories two thousand years in the making. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "Oh, it's good!"

Some of the tension drained out of Crowley's posture. "You like them?"

"My dear, they're heavenly!" Aziraphale helped himself to another. "Er, that is to say, they're delicious. You must have worked so hard on them."

Crowley shrugged. "Nah, oysters are easy, once they understand who's boss. Now you have to try the bouillabaisse."

"What?" Aziraphale said, but Crowley was already gone. He returned a moment later with a steaming bowl of stew which he placed in front of Aziraphale before sitting down.

Aziraphale picked up his spoon, then paused. "Aren't you going to have any?"

"Maybe later," Crowley said. "I tasted quite a lot, you know, making it."

"You _cooked_?"

"'Course I cooked!" Crowley scowled. "Why, does it smell infernal to you?"

"No, no, I just didn't know you had it in you," Aziraphale hastened to assure him. "I thought you might have ordered take-out."

His assurances were apparently lacking. Crowley's scowl deepened. "You know, you don't have to eat it if you don't like it. I have lots of other people I can cook for."

"Oh, now you're just being difficult. Here." Aziraphale delicately picked out a few mussel shells before taking a spoonful. He paused, eyes closing of their own volition. "Oh. _Oh._"

"What?" Crowley sounded more apprehensive than ever.

"It's nothing, it's just . . ." Aziraphale had to take a moment. He was swimming in sensation, the rich taste of the stew combined with an overpowering sense of – of care, and time, and warmth, and fondness and exasperation and fear and – and _love_, love as strong as he'd felt in Tadfield.

He opened his eyes and smiled, but Crowley was still frowning, an expression so at odds with what Aziraphale felt the angel wondered if he'd been mistaken. Perhaps Adam had wandered into Mayfair and Aziraphale had picked up a random jolt from him.

He took another mouthful of stew, letting the textures roll over his tongue, savoring the complexities of taste and feeling. It _was_ in the food. Even humans said it, they could taste when something was "made with love." For an angel, that took on an entirely different dimension of meaning. Aziraphale was getting tipsy on affection.

"Oh, my dear," he whispered. "It's so good. You're so good."

Crowley grimaced, but not before Aziraphale spotted the tell-tale relaxing of his shoulders. "Ah, shut it," the demon muttered, looking away.

"No, I mean it." Aziraphale took another mouthful and hummed. It was a long hum. A less-ethereal being would have called it a moan.

By the end, even Crowley's dark glasses couldn't hide the way his gaze was fixed on him, his mouth hanging slightly open.

Aziraphale wriggled a bit and settled down to eat properly, closing his eyes now and again to better appreciate the mingling of flavours, the deep-rooted longing in every bite. Crowley tracked each mouthful, leaning forward as if to taste along with him.

Aziraphale set his spoon down beside his empty bowl and sighed. "Well, that was simply scrumptious." Then, "Oh, careful! The candle!"

Crowley, who was leaning so far over the table his tie was in danger of catching fire, straightened up again. "Alright, then?"

Aziraphale smiled and reached over to put a hand on Crowley's wrist. "My dear, this is the best bouillabaisse I have ever had. I can't think what I've ever done to deserve –" _you_, he thought, but didn't quite dare say. "—this from you, and quite a lot I've done to not deserve it. All these years, I never knew – thank you." His throat closed before he could say the words, but he thought, _for everything._

Crowley stared at the hand on his wrist, then at Aziraphale. "One minute," he choked out, and fled.

Aziraphale took a sip of wine, feeling a chill of uncertainty. Had he said too much? He'd thought – but maybe Crowley just really, really enjoyed cookery.

_Could _demons feel love? Real love, not just possessiveness for their automobiles or – or attachment out of habit to an adversary who'd been around since the world's creation? He'd wondered before. Gabriel said no, but Aziraphale had learned to take Gabriel's assertions with an Everest-sized pile of salt.

The door banged open and three long tables marched in, piled high, Crowley following in their wake.

"Stop there," he ordered, when they'd arranged themselves against the wall, and pointed to each dish in turn. "Sushi. _Salade de chevre chaud. Salade au bleu._ Fresh baked bread. Filet mignon. Rack of lamb. Roast chicken. _Coq au vin._ Skirt steak with mashed potatoes. _Kouing-amann._ _Poulet Vallée d'Auge. Potatoes dauphinoise_, _with_ your blasted whipping cream, so be glad your arteries are just for show._ Duck á l'Orange. Boeuf bourguignon._ Leek and potato galette. _Gâteau Basque_. _Crêpes __des fraises à la crème_. But no soufflé, because _it knows what it did_."

Aziraphale stared. It was a banquet the likes of which he'd last seen in Versailles, before all the unpleasantness began. He rather felt he should have dressed for the occasion, or at least powdered his hair.

Eventually he managed to drag his attention back over to Crowley. The demon was near-vibrating with tension, his opaque glasses like black holes, pulling Aziraphale in, devouring him.

Aziraphale swallowed hard. "You did all this?" he whispered. "For me?"

Crowley's mouth tightened. His hands clenched into fists. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded harsh, as if it were being dragged out of him. "Angel. You know I would do anything for you."

"Oh." Aziraphale blinked, then had to blink again. The room had gone wavy, the rows of dishes smearing together in the candlelight. "My dear fellow. I . . . I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to sssay anything," Crowley hissed. "Jussst . . . do you like it?"

Aziraphale was suddenly and blasphemously reminded of another offering on a day long, long ago, of a young man standing next to a rock heaped high with grain, all he had, all he knew to give. Of the tremulous hope in his eyes as he looked up, and waited.

Aziraphale hadn't been able to give Cain the answer he needed. But here, now, with Crowley, he thought he could. He stood up, his heart thrumming in his ears, and walked over to him. Mustering his courage, he reached up and gently took the glasses from Crowley's face.

Crowley's eyes were wide, the pupils contracted to a vertical line of black in a sea of yellow. He looked somehow young, in that moment, stripped down and more vulnerable than Aziraphale had ever seen him.

Aziraphale set the glasses down with small click. Crowley glanced at them, then flicked back to Aziraphale's face. He was wound like a coiled serpent, ready to flee, ready to strike.

Aziraphale was trembling himself, now. His knees rather felt the consistency of the oysters he'd enjoyed earlier. Moving with infinite care, he cupped a hand to Crowley's cheek, his thumb brushing the moisture just under his eye.

"Oh, my dear," he murmured. "I love it."

And, well, Aziraphale had not so much adopted British mannerisms as his favorite country had grown up with _him_ embedded in its cultural DNA, but the meal had a French theme [2] and he could work with it. He leaned forward and kissed Crowley's cheek.

Crowley went, if possible, more rigid than before. Aziraphale put a hand on his arm to steady him, and, goodness, he'd only meant to give a friendly peck, much as any old friend would give another when they met up in Paris in 1793 and the one had just saved the other from a nasty discorporation, but somehow his lips didn't want to move from Crowley's thin cheek, and, and, oh dear, this was getting embarrassing, he was _nuzzling_ his old friend, breathing in the scent of leather and smoke and a great many cooking spices, and he knew he should stop, but he couldn't quite think why.

Crowley flailed for a moment before his hands came to rest on Aziraphale's arms, long fingers digging into the wool of his jacket.

Aziraphale managed to pull back enough to look him in the (yellow, panicked) eyes. "You realize it's more food than I can eat in a month."

Crowley's face crumpled. "Oh, yeah, course. I was just – trying a few things out. Got carried away. I'll get rid of it. Just a tic." He reached for his sunglasses on the table.

Aziraphale caught his hand. "It's perfect." He turned Crowley's hand over, tracing the lines of his palm. "You're perfect."

"Ngk," Crowley said. He was breathing rather hard, staring at Aziraphale's hand on his. "Angel, I – I'm glad you liked it, but this – I might be getting a signal here you didn't intend to send, so if it's all the same to you I'd really rather you told me in – in words, what you want?"

"In words?" Aziraphale felt unaccountably shy. He wished, not for the first time, that Crowley could just sense love. But then, _he_ was an angel and it had taken actual _ingestion_ of everything Crowley had put into making that stew for him to overcome his own doubts, so maybe that wasn't fair.

He swallowed. "I want . . ." Why was it so hard to meet Crowley's eyes? Aziraphale settled for looking at the line between his eyebrows instead. "I want to say, I love you. I have for, oh, quite a long time now, and I'm sorry it's taken the end of the world – or, really, what was meant to be the end of the world, for me to say it. Oh, and I hope you love me too. That is, I'm fairly certain you do, but, er, maybe it's presumptuous for me to say so?"

Crowley shut his eyes. Aziraphale felt that was unfair. He'd kept _his_ eyes open, even if he now had a more intimate than expected familiarity with Crowley's eyebrows as a result.

"How long?" Crowley whispered. His hand turned over Aziraphale's, clutching tight. "Have you—?"

"Oh!" Aziraphale brightened. "Oh, goodness, it was in the 40's, wasn't it? The 1940's, I mean. When you saved my books. It was such a sweet gesture, and I never expected . . . well. There you have it."

Crowley nodded, just a jerk of his chin. "You love your books."

"Well, yes," Aziraphale said. "But, you know, I love you more."

Crowley's whole body spasmed. Aziraphale found himself, abruptly, holding an armful of shaking demon. His knees, already under unaccustomed emotional strain, gave up the good fight and he collapsed onto a comfortable and rather surprised over-stuffed sofa that had, up until that moment, been residing in the back room of his bookshop. The little table they'd dined at skidded out of the way, taking their chairs with it.

Crowley landed partially on top of him, sprawled half-on, half-off the sofa, still gripping Aziraphale's hand in his. He made no objection to their sudden change in position, just squirmed around so his face was pressed against Aziraphale's belly, his free arm wrapped around the angel's waist.

Aziraphale caught his breath. The waves beat over him, and they just kept _coming_ – love and want and, and _joy,_ fierce and desperate joy. He felt dizzy.

"And you, my dear?" he patted awkwardly at Crowley's head. This physical contact was a new aspect to their relationship, and one Aziraphale thought he could come to quite enjoy, but it would take some getting used to. "I take it this isn't a, a completely new thing for you either, is it?"

Crowley shook his head, but didn't otherwise move.

"I thought so!" Aziraphale said, pleased with himself. "I mean, you did try to take me to Alpha Centauri with you. Bit of a giveaway, that. I did feel badly about it," he added, when Crowley shuddered. "But, well, it all worked out for the best in the end."

Crowley eased his arm from Aziraphale's waist and sat up. Aziraphale missed the contact immediately, but Crowley still hadn't let go of his hand, so all was not lost. He smiled hopefully.

Crowley glanced at him, then away. Staring at a perfectly blank patch of wall, he said, "Yeah. It – sorta crept up on me too."

Azpiraphale patted his hand, where it still held his own. He was getting _good_ at this. "Well, the Blitz, you know. It brought everyone together. I suppose it was inevitable that we . . ."

Crowley swallowed. "Yeah. No. Actually, I reckon it – it wasn't quite the same time for me."

Aziraphale felt a pang. "When?"

"I, uh," Crowley's hand tightened on Aziraphale's. "The '70's. When you gave me the holy water. Yeah."

"Oh." Aziraphale laughed. "Well, I'm glad I didn't say anything, then! It would have been quite embarrassing, if I said I . . . and you didn't . . ."

Crowley laughed too. It sounded a bit hollow, but then it had been a long day. The desperate waves coming off him had settled down into a familiar thrum, not too different from what Aziraphale had always felt around him. The angel relaxed.

"Do you know," he said. "I think I'd rather like to kiss you."

Crowley's head snapped toward him as if it were on a rubber band. "You – I – what?"

"If you want," Aziraphale said. "We don't have to. I just thought it might be nice."

Crowley licked his lips. He had very nice lips, Aziraphale noticed. He'd always appreciated Crowley's mind, and his sense of humor, and his wicked sense of mischief that could shake up even the dullest of centuries, and the bone-deep compassion he would deny until the next doomsday – but now Aziraphale looked, Crowley's physical corporation was quite lovely too.

He said as much, watching Crowley's face turn a remarkable shade of pink that got deeper the longer Aziraphale talked, until the demon leaned suddenly forward and pressed his mouth to Aziraphale's.

"And your eyes are simply – mmph!" Maybe they collided harder than Crowley'd intended, because Aziraphale was knocked back against the sofa cushions, his mouth stinging, Crowley sprawled on top of him.

"Sssorry!" Crowley scrambled off him, looking everywhere but at Aziraphale. "Sorry. I –"

"It's all right," Aziraphale said, dabbing at his lips. "Here, let me."

He touched Crowley's shoulder, and when the demon stilled, Aziraphale slid his hand up to cup his cheek. Crowley shivered, closing his eyes. Aziraphale leaned forward, carefully tilted his head, and brushed his lips against Crowley's.

Crowley made a sound unlike any Aziraphale had ever heard from him before. His hands came up, tangling in Aziraphale's hair, and they stayed like that for a time, sharing the gentle press of lips and breath, and Aziraphale was right, he thought, it _was_ nice. He would be perfectly happy sharing this with Crowley, along with fine wine and dinners and the theatre and walks in the park, forever.

Did Crowley want more? Demons had a reputation for that sort of thing, though it had never seemed Crowley's style. He was more the type of demon to invent payday lending than Ashley Madison.[3]

Aziraphale pulled back to ask, but Crowley gave a sort of sobbing moan and buried his face in the juncture of Aziraphale's shoulder and neck, his arms hugging around him as if he meant to merge them together.

Aziraphale rubbed circles on Crowley's back, just where his wings would emerge. He wasn't sure if he was meant to be comforting him, or something else. The weight of him felt amazing, even better than kissing, but a damp spot was growing on Aziraphale's shoulder, and that seemed out of place with the rest of their situation. "There, there," he said, hedging his bets.

"Ssso much," Crowley gasped, his voice muffled by several layers of cotton and wool. "Sssorry. I jussst . . . ssso much."

"I know," Aziraphale said, having no idea what he was talking about. "It's all right. I'm here."

Crowley sat up. He stared at Aziraphale, wild-eyed, his hair sticking up in all directions. "I –" He rummaged in his jacket pocket and shoved something at Aziraphale. "Here."

It was a crumpled chocolate bar.

Aziraphale took it in bemusement, then glanced over at the laden tables opposite them. "Crowley, you don't have to give me things for me to love you."

"I know," Crowley snapped. "I wanted to, all right?"

"All right," Aziraphale said mildly. "Thank you." He smoothed out the candy bar's wrapping, then sighed. "You stole this, didn't you?"

Crowley's eyes shifted away from his. "I paid for the food."

"And I will enjoy every bit of it eventually," Aziraphale promised. There was no reason a month's worth of food couldn't stay fresh, after all. He set the candy bar on the back of the sofa. "But I'm taking this to the store tomorrow and paying for it before I eat it."

"Oh, have it your way," Crowley groused. He stretched out full length on the sofa, which graciously expanded to accommodate his legs, and snuggled his face back into Aziraphale's belly, arms snaking around him in what seemed to be his new favorite position.

Aziraphale stroked his hair, running his fingers through the short, coppery waves. He missed Crowley's longer curls. And he'd missed centuries in which to run his hands through them, and hold Crowley like this, and watch him sleep, which seemed a travesty.

Ah, well. Aziraphale snapped his fingers. His current book, _Middlemarch_, appeared on the sofa armrest. It was a third edition, unsigned, so he was willing to allow it to open in the same room as food and drink. The platter of _cr__ê__pes _obligingly floated over to the small dining table, which positioned itself at Aziraphale's elbow.

He cut off a small bite and held it in his mouth, luxuriating in the taste of strawberries and cream and the memory of sharing a restaurant in the middle of a revolution with his best friend, and – and Crowley _did _love him before he gave him the holy water, he was sure of it. Why, he'd even seemed fond when they met up at the Globe. Probably it was Aziraphale's going to Edinborough for him that sealed the deal. The old snake just didn't want to admit it.

Aziraphale rubbed his thumb gently against Crowley's throat. No demon since the Fall had ever offered himself up so willingly to an angel, and no angel in history had ever been so close to a demon without smiting it. But Crowley only hummed and turned his head to give Aziraphale greater access. He didn't open his eyes.

Aziraphale took another bite of _cr__ê__pes_ and shivered at the rush of warmth, love, and contentment that washed through him. He thought of feeding Crowley strawberries and cream. He thought of picnics in the park, where he would eat what Crowley made for them and Crowley would drink in the sight of him eating. He thought of telling him, every day, how wonderful he was and how much Aziraphale loved him, until Crowley stopped his mouth with a kiss.

He smoothed his hand over Crowley's hair and opened his book. It would come, all of it.

They had all the time in the world.

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_Fin_

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[1] Crowley tried, repeatedly, to tempt Aziraphale out of Dark Ages Europe. He plied him with tales of saffron rice in India, pigeon bastille in Morocco, lamb Fattah in Cairo, chocolate in Tenochtitlan. But Aziraphale was under orders from Gabriel to stay in the Holy Roman Empire for the duration of the Crusades. Crowley _loathed_ Gabriel.

[2] Broadly speaking. No _chef de cuisine _worth her _toque blanche_ would admit to knowing anything about sushi, but Aziraphale liked it, and that was all Crowley cared about.

[3] Aziraphale knew Crowley had invented payday lending because Crowley gave him his reports to edit before sending them Below. He knew what Ashley Madison was because of a long and drunken conversation one night which they both deeply regretted in the morning.

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A/N: Oh, fandom, how I've missed you! It's good to be back.

If you like my stuff, you might want to check out my new novel, _Rena's Game_, available for pre-order now on Amazon at a special discount. You can read a super-long chunk of it for free on wattpad - there's a link on my profile. Love you guys!


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